Haunted
by BecauseIwrite
Summary: He'll say something wrong. Of course he will, he always does. And I'll hit him. I'll tell myself to go back home. But then I'll see it. The thing that haunts my dreams. That look. And I'll know I'm not leaving.


A/N: Spike and Buffy belong to Joss. Buffy/Spike sex? Yup. Meant to be more animalistic than romantic.

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Haunted

It haunts me. The look in his eyes. The one that says "You can push me as hard as you can, but I will never leave you." It haunts me.

Sometimes when I'm about to fall asleep, I'll see those eyes and my body will tremble. I'll feel like I'm going insane, like I can't control my thoughts, my actions, like he controls them. It's wrong. I'll know it's wrong. I'll touch myself, his name on my lips, on my tongue, and I'll know it's wrong. I'll feel the heat slither into a coil in my belly and it'll be those eyes that push me over the edge. And even when the writhing stops and I'm just a pile of limbs and sweat and sheets, I'll know it's not enough. I'll want more. I'll want _his_ limbs, _his_ sweat, _his_ sheets and I'll know it's wrong.

And suddenly everything will be too hot, too still. It'll be the middle of the night and I'll need to go for a walk. He won't be home that late; he'll be out drinking, gambling or doing anything else that makes me hate him. That's what I'll tell myself. But I'll know I'm lying. About all of it. He'll be home. He'll know I'm coming. He'll know that I'll show up, hot, bothered, wanting to beg, but refusing to let myself. He'll smell my spendings on the curls above my heat, the musk on my body that I didn't bother washing and he'll know why I'm there. And he'll be ready to beg. He'll let me play my game, let me think that I'm in control, when it's really him who will be holding all the cards.

He'll say something wrong. Of course he will, he always does. And I'll hit him. I'll tell myself to go back home. That it's all wrong. That I'm not supposed to be there. But then I'll see it. The thing that haunts my dreams. That look. And I'll know I'm not leaving. Not until he has me screaming his name and writhing under his touch. He'll know it too and the game will be over. And the dance will begin.

There will be no trepidation in the kiss. Not lips finding lips, tongues sliding against tongues, It will be mouth crushed against mouth, tongues battling for control. It won't be sweet, he'll know I won't want it sweet. No humanity. Just animals acting on their most carnal instincts. He'll hurt me first, bite me, bruise me, bleed me, and I'll let him. And in the morning when I won't be able to believe what I did, I will be able to say he started it. But once it's started, I'll retaliate, hungrily, savagely, but in the morning, it will have been his fault.

I'll bite into the flesh of his muscular stomach with blunt teeth, savoring the primal, metallic taste of his cold, slippery plasma. He'll sound like he's in pain, but I'll know otherwise. He loves it when I bleed him… because of what he is. Because when he pulls my face up so he can look at me, he'll see my mouth colored with him. And his face will contort as he licks and sucks himself off of my lips and tongue and teeth. He'll rock the hardness between his legs roughly against the apex of my thighs. My head will roll back with the contact, legs curling like a snake around his back, squeezing him breathless. He'll nip at my neck, knowing not to mark me where others can see and trail his cool breath to the taunt peak of my breast. He'll lick, suck, bite, draw blood, thrusting himself between my thighs. It will be maddening. His jeans, my jeans will be too thick as I writhe, topless beneath him. My nails will scrape the skin from his lithe, bare back and my teeth will sink into his shoulder as I fall apart.

I'll be breathing heavily when he pulls back, blood dripping from his shoulder, his back, his stomach and the need for him to devour every inch of me will knock the breath, the sense right out of me. He'll only be able to stare a moment, taking in the blood smudged around my lips and nipples before a roar rips through his throat and straight to the tight coil in my belly. He'll tear off my jeans, my underwear and pull his own jeans from his legs. He won't be wearing underwear. He never is.

He'll bury himself deep between my thighs and our heads will be thrown back as twin yells are expelled from our throats. He'll be rough, like the monsters in us both need. The noises that rise from his crypt will be savage enough to scare any demons from creating any kind of disturbance. We won't be bothered.

He'll encircle my wrists with hand-shaped bruises and thrust my arms above my head as he beats into me. He'll bite, only hard enough to bruise, up the undersides of my arms, and I'll scream like we're fighting to the death and he's winning. I'll use the muscles hidden inside me to even out the odds, and it will be his turn to scream. And in his moment of weakness I'll be able to wrest myself from underneath him and it will be my chance to lead.

But his hands will bruise into my hips until I'll forget my upper-hand. He'll beat my body against his with nothing but the pure need to devour me evident in his eyes and he will lose me in that second. My body will start to convulse as the pleasure-pain erupts from inside of me. I'll scream his name when I can no longer control my body's tremors and I'll hear him roar mine as he seizes and spills into me.

Unable to do anything else, I'll collapse on top of him. My spendings, his, and blood will leak from where we're connected onto him, but neither of us will care. Our sweat and the blood from our wounds will coat us in something sticky and slippery, but we'll be too spent to feel it. Once I am able to use the muscles in my neck, I'll pull back to look into his eyes. And I'll see it. The look that has haunted me day and night and I'll know it's wrong. "You can push me as hard as you can, but I will never leave you." And this time it will not draw me closer to him. Haunted... It will scare me away.

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A/N: Thanks for reading!


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